


whereof are you made?

by sure sure (getoffmysheets)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Deception, Double Life, F/M, Gen, Good Narcissa Black Malfoy, Harry Potter just wants to help, Hermione being a clever sausage as always, Infidelity, Not Epilogue Compliant, Severus Snape Being a Bastard, Severus Snape Has a Heart, and that agenda has fuck-all to do with harry potter, but they are also bloody-minded pragmatists with an agenda, look Narcissa and Snape are good guys here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28398552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmysheets/pseuds/sure%20sure
Summary: Lucius should have been a bit more concerned that she was likely to take after Andromeda rather than Bellatrix.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Narcissa Black Malfoy/Severus Snape, Severus Snape & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 26





	1. prologue: a flower of the forbidden garden

**Author's Note:**

> let's not pretend that anything i do makes any sense at all at this point, because we know that's not true

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is already about half-written and i do have some idea of where i'm going for once (yeah i know, i'm just as surprised, believe me)

If anyone had asked - how they had acquired the knowledge without either party involved immediately casting an Obliviate was certainly another very interesting question - but had anyone possessed the knowledge and gathered enough courage to ask, Narcissa would say that they had gotten themselves into this situation because they had both found themselves in...unfortunate and distasteful life circumstances when this whole thing began. 

‘Miserably untenable’ would be Severus’ words to describe it, though he would say, if asked, that these problems were because he, Severus Snape, could not do a single thing, no matter how originally meaningless, without throwing his whole self into it. 

And the one thing the two of them agreed on was that this wasn’t supposed to mean anything, in the beginning.

Two very important facts should be noted in their own defense. First, that Narcissa did not actually want to marry Lucius Malfoy. She merely didn’t  **_not_ ** want to marry him, which for her militantly pure-blooded family, was good enough to pass muster. 

Narcissa was under no illusions - Lucius picked her because she was from the House of Black and because she was blonde and quite beautiful. She doubted he gave a second thought for Narcissa herself, except to reassure himself that she didn’t have her oldest sister’s temperamental issues. 

Secondly, Severus had believed himself solely devoted to Lily Evans, who had recently become Lily Potter, and oh how he had bitterly observed the change.

He had been aware that Narcissa was not necessarily a happy new bride - for half-blood scum, the man wasn’t half clever and that was the truth. She and Lucius were married in his sixth year - he hadn’t been invited to the actual ceremony, he wasn’t considered for the honor, but he had been to the feasting afterwards. 

He recalled hearing rumors around that time that Narcissa had already had a miscarriage about half way through her first pregnancy less than a year into their marriage. 

He also knew Lucius - and his taste - very well, and Severus was stone-cold certain that the respectful behavior he was required to display to his wife as a respectable pure-blooded witch, the mistress of his manor, and the future mother to his heirs was not at all to his taste. 

Briefly, he had the thought at the time that Narcissa couldn’t possibly be any more satisfied than Lucius. Severus would never have gone so far as to say that he was worldly in bedroom matters, but in his experience with women and witches, men as a whole tended to be rather lazy in this respect, and wizards were often especially guilty of this. 

And this was the thought that arrested him as he was surrounded by other Death Eaters, realizing with increasing self-hatred and bitterness that this is what he had thrown all his happiness away for, the grand right to grovel and appease the ego of a megalomaniac off his crock. 

He was often honest to the point of brutality, so Severus didn’t mind acknowledging that at first, it was all just a game to him. The angry and vengeful game of a young man, to take the lawful wife of the man he used to call his best friend and get Narcissa to ask, get her to  _ beg _ for what her husband couldn’t give her. 

(Even then, he’d known it wasn’t true - his best friend couldn’t stand the sight of him, and she hadn’t spoken to him in years.)

So. Seduce Narcissa, as the intellectual exercise of a wrathful teenage boy. He made no excuses for himself. 

For her part, Narcissa had an inkling that their interactions had something to do with Severus wanting to get back at Lucius for something and had no way of knowing that Lucius was just the placeholder for a much larger dissatisfaction with his entire life. 

Lucius should have been a bit more concerned that she was likely to take after Andromeda rather than Bellatrix - how eager she was to spread her legs for a man with such impure blood. 

Narcissa rather thought Lucius could share the blame on that, actually.

Oh, not the actual act (... _acts_ ). 

But the circumstances which first allowed Narcissa to be tempted and then to have continuous access to her seducer rested solely on Lucius Malfoy’s own shoulders. 

If you neglect your wife for the pleasures of abusing your numerous mistresses, leave her unsatisfied whenever you can bring yourself to go to her bed, and then allow a younger and more sexually obliging man open access to your home at any time, whether you are present or not, well…

As Narcissa put it “If you’ve invited a dragon to join you for tea, you can hardly be surprised when your drawing room curtains catch fire.” 

(Severus once asked if he were the dragon or the fire...impertinent man!)

But Lucius’ greatest downfall was his confidence in his own self-importance. Not only would it never occur to him that Narcissa had wants and desires of her own (that he was not fulfilling), that the object of his wife’s desires would be his dear friend Severus would never so much as cross his mind. He was literally incapable of putting the idea that his nubile young wife wanted his old school friend together. 

The half-blood was gifted, a true genius in the art of Potions...but he was still a half-blood. Fumes from the cauldron and the harsh cleansers used to clean them out left his hair an oily dark curtain hanging below his shoulders, and his all-black wardrobe made his thin face look downright gaunt and nearly corpse-like, and well…the nose. There was no getting around that. There was really nothing else to say about it, was there? 

What the hell would Narcissa want with the dirty half-blood who’d spent his school years riding Lucius’ coat tails? 

Severus could describe what he’d done to Narcissa in the most explicit of detail only that afternoon, and it never crossed Lucius even once that his friend was speaking of his own wife.

( _ “And she let you? Severus, you exaggerate, surely!” _

_ “ _ **_Let_ ** _ me? No, my friend. She didn’t let me, she  _ **_demanded_ ** _ it.” _ )

At Hogwarts, they had all grown from hyperactive children to awkward teenagers to near-adults together, and they had all witnessed this less than graceful transformation in each other. For even boys like James Potter, it was difficult to keep the attention of the witches, for Severus it was almost impossible. But the local girls in Cokeworth only saw him for a couple months out of the year. For them, Severus was an exotic creature very different from the other boys in the neighborhood. 

And in Cokeworth, much to Severus’ surprise, the girls  _ wanted _ him. 

Severus Snape spoke like an educated gentleman and dressed like a young thug starting a career in organized crime, with a voice like a glass of poisoned wine, both wounding and velvety, and he had a positively hypnotic black stare, so focused and sharp it might seem he was on the verge of eating you alive.

And Narcissa, hands shaking out of sight behind her back as she waited for Lucius to go back to playing billiards with one of the LeStranges, she could see what  _ they _ saw. 

That half-blood had spent every summer after fifth year back home in Cokeworth, on Spinner’s End, fucking the muggle girls the way muggles fuck, all fingers and tongue and stamina, because he couldn’t use a wand to get a muggle girl off unless he wanted to risk being arrested by the Ministry for both misuse of magic and violating the Statue of Secrecy. 

What Severus enjoyed, he was driven to master completely. 

He would never call himself a sexual master in the way that he was proud to say he was Master of Potions, but whether witch or muggle, he knew how to make a woman satisfied with whatever time she spent in his bed, however brief.

Although Bellatrix was renowned for her beauty, Andromeda - although never spoken of directly in the Malfoy household - was nearly her twin from a distance. In Narcissa’s personal opinion, Andromeda possessed more dignity, more warmth and gravitas to her appearance, and it made her the superior beauty, but she would never be allowed to  _ say _ so. 

Their mother Druella used to say that Narcissa was the most beautiful girl in the room...until either of her sisters walked into it. She was shorter, thinner, and paler - she looked almost ethereal, right until the moment she stood next to them. Next to Andromeda and Bellatrix, Narcissa became nearly phantom-like, a faint echo of beauty next to their earthy eye-grabbing good looks. Like a whisper being drowned out by an opera. 

Severus, although he would also never be allowed to say so without raising concerns, strongly disagreed. 

Lily’s beauty was the beauty of the sun - blinding and undeniable and so full of warmth that it made you feel more happy and alive just to see it. 

To him, Bellatrix and Andromeda had the beauty of fire, wild and hypnotizing. And dangerous - getting close to it would be a mistake, but many did because they couldn’t help it. Ted Tonks didn’t disgrace Andromeda Black so much as fall into the fire, head first. 

Narcissa was the stars - distant and without warmth, but timeless and so mysterious and captivating that you might spend your lifetime trying to unravel its secrets, and still barely have scratched its surface. Thinking on it too long might drive one out of their mind. 

He tried not to. He really, honestly tried. Like the sun, like the fire, the image of the stars tended to linger on in the mind, but it wasn’t seared there, it didn’t burn his eyes and fill his vision with pain. And he was so tired of the pain.

So instead of lingering on Lily, his mind went back, again and again, to Narcissa, and his body kept going back to her as well. 

The mechanical copulation she engaged in with her own husband was completely absent - young and hungry and furious, Severus often fucked her with such violence and passion, all fingers and tongue and stamina like a muggle man, that Narcissa was usually left sated, bruised, and so sore she could hardly get out of bed until her house-elf Prinny handed off her potions.

But each time she would welcome him with the same eagerness as the last, and Severus could not quite hide his own surprise but he obliged her just as willingly as before.

This was how, without realizing that it was happening and quite unintentionally, Severus Snape once again found himself in love with another man’s wife.

The great difference this time was that the woman in question also loved Severus Snape.

But then Narcissa got pregnant, and that was when all of their  _ real _ problems began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i once read an interview that rowling did where she expressed appalled amazement that snape was anybody's favorite character. i am equally appalled and amazed that she was so disgusted by the idea that someone liked any of her characters, never mind the most complex and interesting character in the entire series. 
> 
> anyway, i'm spiteful enough that i often get the urge to write trans!Harry these days so maybe someday i'll make that happen - i've turned Scott Lang into a drag queen, made mtf!Carol Danvers and mtf!Will Byers, so it might be it's time for ftm!Harry Potter one of these days


	2. today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe give those tags a second look?

Harry walked down to the Shrieking Shack with a grim determination. His task was not a pleasant one, but one he would not shy away from: retrieve Severus Snape’s body for burial. 

He hadn’t liked his former professor and for long portions of their relationship, he hadn’t even respected him, Harry acknowledged guiltily. But for all his faults and vices, Snape had risked his life for the sake of protecting Harry, over and over. Not with complaint and not without resentment, but without once truly leaving Harry to fend for himself. 

All the moments where he’d felt alone, he finally realized that he’d never really been left alone - Snape would never have let him die, never have let him fail. He’d bitched and he’d bullied and he’d sneered, but he’d still been there, countless times, whenever Harry had really needed him to be.

Harry couldn’t stomach the idea of leaving the man’s body to rot in that broken down building filled with dust, with his throat half ripped out and laying in a pool of his own cold blood. The last thing he expected to find was another living person who had arrived some time before he did, and they were kneeling next to the body which he had come to retrieve, bent over near Snape’s head.

Harry paused, wand drawn, waiting to see if this was an Auror, an Order member, or perhaps a Death Eater seeking to mutilate the body of the traitor who caused them to lose the war. 

None of those things, he realized, catching sight of a sparkly hair clip, shaped like a trio of golden stars that was holding back a head of dark curls. Her tie confirmed that she was a student, but Harry had no idea what a Hufflepuff upperclassman was doing with Snape. 

No - naturally, she was attempting to save him, poor girl. She had to be a fifth or sixth year, he certainly didn’t recognize her. Harry wasn’t very close to much of his yearmates, but he felt confident he could’ve at least recognized one of them, but she was not from his year. 

Even from his hiding place, he could see that her tights and skirt had both become soaked with blood, and she seemed to be whispering something under her breath.

“I am not a dunderhead, I am  _ not _ a dunderhead…”

Bottles were scattered around her legs, emptied of their potions. Harry became quite uncomfortable when he realized that she was actually crying softly as she worked.

“Er...hello.”

Without moving from Snape’s side, the young witch snatched her wand from the floor and shot off a Stunner at him - nonverbal and without even lifting her head to look up. Harry was actually quite impressed, even if it didn’t get through his Protego. Then again, he didn’t think the Stunner was actually meant to hit him, he suspected it was just supposed to scare him off into leaving her alone. 

In genuine surprise, Harry exclaimed “Bloody Merlin, he’s alive!”

In a rather uncanny imitation of the man himself, the Hufflepuff responded with a sarcastic, “Oh, is he? I hadn’t noticed.” Then, just as surprised as Harry, she finally looked up to meet his eyes and said “You’re Harry Potter.”

Feeling a perverse sense of amusement, Harry imitated both her and Snape: “Am I? I hadn’t noticed.” 

With another glance at him, she scowled fiercely and said “You can help or you can go away. Pick one.” 

Harry gave this statement careful consideration, and then flicked his wand. “ _ Expecto patronum. _ ”

Prongs looked at him expectantly and Harry said “Message to Poppy Pomfrey and Minerva McGonagall: the Headmaster is still alive. Please send immediate medical assistance to the Shrieking Shack.”

“You can’t tell the Deputy Headmistress,” the girl growled, eyes widening. “She’ll have him arrested!” 

“No, she won’t,” he soothed softly. Apparently this Hufflepuff hadn’t been at the scene of the final battle where Harry had loudly and clearly stated which side he believed Snape’s loyalty belonged to - she had been here instead, it seemed, trying to save the man’s life. “Snape was our ally. We couldn’t have won this war without him.”

Answering his question about whether this girl was on the side of the Death Eaters or not, the witch hissed “I  _ knew _ it!”, bloody hands clenching in the thick black fabric of the Headmaster’s robes and giving the unconscious Snape a slight shake. “I  _ knew _ you weren’t an evil bastard!”

Interest thoroughly peaked, the two of them paused as a silvery tabby cat burst through the walls of the Shack and spoke in McGonagall’s voice: “If possible, please transport Headmaster to the front gates. Pomfrey will be waiting at the doors to assess him. He may require direct transfer to St. Mungo’s Hospital.” 

“You’ll have to do it,” the Hufflepuff admitted, pocketing her wand and keeping her robes pressed to his neck. “The bloody thing keeps opening back up again - I’ve given him Blood Replenishers six times.”

“It’s Nagini’s venom.” At her confused expression, he added “The snake. She bit him, that’s why the wound doesn’t want to stay shut. Something about her venom keeps her victims from healing again.”

“I see,” she said, looking frustrated. “In that case, we’d better hurry. Nothing I was going to do was ever going to work until the venom works its way out or gets flushed out of his system.”

Holding his wand perfectly steady, Harry experienced a moment of a deja vu as he began levitating Snape’s body back to Hogwarts, this time above ground and instead of Ron, Hermione, Remus, and Sirius, he had the curly-haired Hufflepuff he’d just met ten minutes ago. 

Since it was a rather long walk back, Harry decided they might as well make conversation. “So, how did you know that Snape wasn’t really an evil bastard?”

In the faint pink light of dawning outside, he could see the slope of her Roman nose, as well as the slight flush forming on her rounded cheeks. She said, “I know that Snape’s a bastard, he’s just not an  _ evil _ bastard.” 

Curious now as well as very amused, Harry asked “How did you know that he wasn’t an evil bastard then, Hufflepuff?”

“Not ‘Hufflepuff’. My name is Miranda, Miranda Whitsall.” She suddenly found the rough track through Hogsmeade very fascinating somehow. Quietly, she said “I know because he’s been protecting me.”

“From the Carrows?” Harry asked.

“From everything,” she answered shortly. 

Though Harry wasn’t exactly the top of any subject except maybe Defense, he was a quick study and he realized that Snape being alive had a lot of messy legal implications. “Would you be willing to provide testimony about that?” he said earnestly, keeping his voice calm and sincere now that her face had become so closed off. “I think I’d be able to keep him out of prison if I yell about it loud enough, but it would be better for him if there’s as much evidence as possible that he wasn’t actually an  _ evil _ bastard.” 

She nodded, stilted but in agreement, and said nothing more until the three of them approached the slope leading upward to the front doors. 

McGonagall, though exhausted and dirty and bruised - red-eyed from mourning the losses of both comrades and students - looked quite calm and composed to Harry’s eyes. Until she noted Miranda, still keeping her robes pressed to Snape’s neck. McGonagall looked like someone had just walked over her grave. “Miss-Miss Whitsall...what…”

Madame Pomfrey came down to assess Snape, gently moving Miranda out of the way with a sideways glance at her that Harry couldn’t interpret. She stood there, stony-faced and coated in blood everywhere - from a smear along her cheek to her soaked through stockings. 

Harry let the daunting silence hang for a moment before his own discomfort took over. “Professor...what’s wrong?”

McGonagall inhaled through her nose, squaring her shoulders back as though once more preparing for the battlefield. “It’s alright, Mister Potter. I’m merely...surprised to see Miss Whitsall taking on the role of a triage healer. Particularly for the Headmaster.”

Miranda gave a laugh that contained no amusement in it whatsoever, and explained without quite meeting Harry’s eyes, in a tone of studied calm. “She’s surprised because the Headmaster put a great deal of effort into making the entire school believe that he’s been violently assaulting me several times a day for most of the year.” 

Harry choked on air, shocked by both her blunt language and the subject matter it contained. Almost more unsettling than the words themselves was the matter-of-fact tone Miranda used in saying them - it nearly reminded him of Luna, except that Luna stated her words effortlessly and Miranda sounded more like she was accustomed to suppressing the emotion behind them. 

“I was chosen as the school’s sacrificial lamb for the Headmaster’s deviousness and temper, so I’m sure she’s quite sick at the sight of me,” she said, just as detached as before. Then, as though remembering that this was the Deputy Headmistress, Miranda added a deadpan “Ma’am.”

“I-” He’d never seen McGonagall quite so thunderstruck, not even when dealing with Umbridge at her most infuriating. 

“Professor, how does one put memories into a Pensieve?” Harry asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Whitsall says she has more evidence that Snape - that the Headmaster was lying to Tom to keep the school safe from the other Death Eaters.”

McGonagall’s mouth pressed into a very thin white line. “Yes, I certainly hope that she does,” she said finally. “Hold your wand to her temple - or she can do it herself - and she must concentrate on the memory you will be gathering. The incantation is ‘ _ memoriam procul _ ’. You needn’t get discouraged if it takes several tries for each memory - it’s a tricky spell and requires concentration on the part of the subject. It might be quite difficult, especially as I believe most of what Miss Whitsall has to show you she would prefer not to think about at all.”

“I think I’ll manage,” Miranda replied sweetly, then added a delayed, “Thank you, ma’am.”

“There’s a Pensieve up in the Headmaster’s office.” Harry told her.

She responded with a rather cryptic, “I’m aware,” and gestured forward. “After you, Potter.”

He paused as they entered the school. “I’d like to bring Ron and Hermione with me, if you’re okay with that.” Hastily, because he did understand that this whole thing was an invasion of her privacy, he explained “It’s just that we tend to work better as a team - they’re good at catching details that I might miss.” 

Miranda paused to think about that for a moment. “You can bring the bloody Minister himself if I don’t have to go in with you,” she finally concluded. “Where are they, then?”

Harry had to swallow past the tight knot in his throat. “They’ll be with the Weasleys, I reckon.” He swallowed again. “Fred has died.”

For the first time since he came upon her Hogsmeade after briefly witnessing her tears, Miranda displayed an emotion beyond her curious vague near-contempt for Professor McGonagall. Her features softened. “Oh, poor George,” she whispered. “Poor Mrs. Weasley.” 

Harry bobbed his head in agreement, worried that if he opened his mouth to say anything, he’d start blubbering.

The two of them turned into the Great Hall. They did indeed find Ron and Hermione with the Weasleys - Ron was sitting beside George, one arm slung around his shoulders. Hermione was hugging Ginny tightly on the benches a few rows down from them. 

Miranda was staring at the bodies around them, prepared for the burials that would need to come in the next few days. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I forgot that you haven’t been here for the last few hours. Is there anyone I can help you ask for?”

She shook her head mutely. Nobody seemed to be paying much attention to them right now - though a few of the adults did give some alarmed looks at her bloodied appearance. 

When they approached Ginny and Hermione, like McGonagall before her, Harry watched Ginny’s face go ashen as she realized who he’d brought with him as his companion.

“This is Miranda Whitsall - she’s agreed to let us look at some of her memories in a Pensieve. She has more evidence that Snape wasn’t really working for Tom.” The second piece of information he gave under his breath. “He’s alive - at least for now. I’d like for you and Ron to come with me when I look at them.” 

Ginny and Hermione both looked to Ron, who seemed to be the only thing preventing George from completely collapsing. “Maybe I should go with you instead,” Ginny said, despite her obvious unease. “I was probably there for some of it. And Ron is...busy.”

“Are you okay with that, Whitsall?” he asked. “If Ginny comes with us?”

“I already told you,” Miranda rasped. “Bring whoever you want - just don’t expect me to go in there with you.” 

“Alright then,” Hermione said briskly, glancing at each of them. She wasn’t quite able to hide her own curiosity on the subject now, but Harry supposed that was why they loved her. “Headmaster’s office?”

Harry sort of waffled about what to do with the swirl of silver memories already floating/swimming around in the stone bowl of the Pensieve. Occasionally, the misty form of his mother as a little girl formed with a chain of daisies in her hand. “It’s evidence,” he told Hermione, “The stuff he gave me to help me with Tom. I can’t get rid of it, but it...feels too personal…”

Miranda slid her wand out of her sleeve - Harry hadn’t even noticed her putting it there earlier - and tapped it against an inkwell on top of the desk, murmuring “ _ Sicut vitrum _ .”

Harry was watching the spell and could not see the odd look that Hermione gave her. The silver inkwell became a large glass drinking goblet. The memories, once placed in the goblet, became the eerie silver liquid that was their appearance outside of the Pensieve. 

“Hermione can do it for you,” Harry offered. “She’s better at magic than I am.” 

“I’d rather do it myself,” she said with a faint grimace. 

“No harm in trying,” he said, shrugging. 

As McGonagall had said, it took Miranda multiple tries to bring each memory forth. “I can feel the spell working,” she admitted. “But my thoughts feel sort of...slippery.” 

Eventually, after shaking four silver threads out into the rune-carved bowl of the Pensieve, Miranda stepped back. “Every single day was evidence, you could say.” The four of them watched as the figure of Miranda herself formed in the silver mists, tear-stained and cowering as she knelt on the ground, an uncanny mirror of the way Harry first saw her. “I just picked the most important ones.” 

The three Gryffindors all looked at each other. She’d made it explicitly clear that she had no intention of going with them. Harry took each of the girls’ hands and all three of them bent forward…

They were all familiar with the upper fourth floor corridor - there were very few portraits in that part of the castle, and it made sneaking off alone somewhere much easier. It was popular in particular as a spot for the upperclassmen to make out. 

That was not what was happening in this memory. 

There were more than half a dozen boys - Harry was disgusted to note that more than a few were Gryffindors, one and two years below him - they were all dragging a girl that he realized must be Miranda. Literally picking her up and dragging her further down the hall. Perhaps this was why all of Ginny’s boyfriends were in the grade above her...

The ringleader was a rough looking Ravenclaw boy that Harry felt pretty sure was in Ginny’s year and he did  _ not _ like the look on his face when he stared at Miranda. 

“Look here - Whitsall thinks she’s too good for a pureblood,” he said with a sneer, tugging at the front of her robes. Laughed at her as she lashed out with her fists, her struggles becoming more frantic as Miranda realized he was going to undress her. With a dark glint in his eye, he grabbed her breast through her blouse. Miranda thrashed around wildly, the blood flowing from her nose stained her clothes and the floor.

Another boy, one of the Gryffindors laughed as well, his hand on her leg over the stocking, not-so-casually creeping beneath her skirt. “Maybe we ought to find some filthy Mudblood man - maybe she only wants to lay down for Muggle scum, Vaughn. We could find her a dog,” he giggled, and Harry’s stomach turned over. “Probably be cleaner!” 

“Get off-” she hissed, breathless with her frantic struggling. “Get **_off_** _me_ , you **fucking-** ”

The Ravenclaw - who must be Vaughn - his face abruptly became colder and lost all of it’s mirth, leaving only the darkness behind it. He grabbed Miranda by the throat, cutting her words off with a visceral gagging noise. “Don’t talk back to me,” he growled in her face. “What would your mummy say, talking back to your big brother?”

She had to struggle past the chokehold to speak, but she did it just the same. “Not...my...brother…”

“ _ Fiancee _ , then,” he purred and Miranda’s face went first green and then a ghastly gray. 

“What seems to be going on here, Mister Collier?”

Even such an evil little creep like Vaughn was apparently scared shitless of the new Headmaster. 

Vaughn Collier’s cohort, the Gryffindor with the too clever cat-smile, told Snape: “Vaughn's dad and Whitsall’s mum are married, sir. Now that the Dark Lord has ascended to his proper place, his dad thinks it’s time for both of them to make the family lines secure.” 

“Very sensible,” Snape remarked, with a nod of his head. As though they were talking about the weather and he had not just walked onto the scene of this group of teenage boys most likely about to gang-rape their own classmate...and stepsister, it seemed.

Miranda, who was clever enough to have realized that no rescue would be coming for her with the arrival of the Headmaster, had begun to weep, fast and soundless. Ginny turned and pressed herself into Harry’s side, like she wanted to disappear. 

Proudly, Vaughn said “Father thought of this great plan to make sure that all of our inheritance stays together - Whitsall and I are engaged now. We’re not blood related, not like brothers and sisters, but this way we get to keep her dowry and our estate will stay whole.”

“That is a clever thought,” the Headmaster agreed, examining the trembling girl with a disinterested eye. Like a man at a fair might examine a horse or a bushel of tomatoes. “Might I guess that Miss Whitsall isn’t as keen on this idea?” 

Vaughn scowled. “She disobeys Father’s wishes, sir. It’s a disgrace.”

“Let her go,” Snape said lazily, eyeing Miranda still. “Perhaps Miss Whitsall requires some additional...discipline.”

Most of the boys giggled in anticipation of the coming demonstration.

As soon as they released her, Miranda slid down to the cold stone of the floor, legs trembling so badly that they could no longer support her. Her face was frozen in terror as Snape, black robes sweeping around him, began to circle her like a shark in bloody waters. All by herself like that, they could finally see the dark bruise forming around one of her eyes - her nose had finally stopped bleeding, but her robes and blouse were already covered in blood. 

“It’s unusual for a Hufflepuff to show such a great deal of spirit. Hm, not the weeping though. That’s quite usual, I’m afraid,” he tossed over his shoulder with a smirk. “Still, she’s pretty, isn’t she? The pretty ones often need a great deal of breaking in, Collier - even if she is a little underdeveloped for her age.” 

This last comment gained another burst of laughter from the group of boys. Despite her terror and her tears, Miranda’s fists clenched, white-knuckled with rage against her skirts. 

“Beauty is a woman’s power,” Snape said silkily, reaching out to let a dark lock of hair coil around one of his long white fingers, Miranda’s curls falling out of their pins with the force of her fighting. “And the more she has, the more willful she becomes, the more that power must be...tempered. Miss Whitsall is a fine creature, but she’ll need a firm hand to keep her from strange notions and ideas, Mister Collier.”

“Sir, I can-”

“I’ll write to your father, Collier. His idea has such good merit that perhaps he should speak with our Lord. The Dark Lord values such industrial and ambitious thinking. But surely Vincent can’t mean to give you such a disobedient and childish bride,” Snape said thoughtfully. To their own discomfort, his eyes never left Miranda’s face. “You are young, and it is unfair that he should give you such a long and difficult task as making this wholly unrefined creature into a suitable wife, Mister Collier. I know just from the sight of her that Miss Whitsall will need a master with greater...experience than you possess.”

He reached out to touch her again, this time brushing some of the dark curls away from her face and Miranda made a noise that tried to be a whimper, if she could only give the sound enough breath to exist. 

It took Vaughn a moment to realize what Snape was alluding to, but she had clearly already figured it out, the horror of knowledge filling her eyes, locked with Snape’s and frozen to his gaze with her own fear. Hermione had to cover her mouth, suddenly overcome with nausea at this tiny detail. 

Vaughn in his own turn seemed to have weighed the benefits of the situation and calculated that arguing with the Headmaster’s authority gave him no rewards but plenty of trouble. He’d lost the opportunity to assault his stepsister whenever he wished, but perhaps gained some goodwill by allowing Snape to do so in his place. “Too right, sir,” he said with a laugh. “I’d be careful, though - she bites.” 

“Be on your way then, gentlemen,” Snape murmured, eyes still affixed to Miranda. “I have a considerable task ahead of me for the night.”

Snape waited, patient as a spider, for every boy to disappear around the corner of the hall. “Well, Miss Whitsall?”

“Yes?” she croaked, and then in her apparently signature show of silent defiance, added her belated “Sir?” 

If Harry didn’t know any better, he might think that small hint of disrespect had actually pleased the man.

“Any appeals to my mercy, Miss Whitsall? No pleas for leniency?”

Miranda shook her head, not daring to look away from him. Her expression gave her thoughts away: why would she plead with a man who had no pity? Beg for a mercy that did not exist? Give away the last of her pride and dignity in an absolutely futile gesture?

“I see, then.” Snape sounded nearly amused. “But perhaps I may have a wholly different use for you, Miss Whitsall. Perhaps a glimmer of mercy shall be in order after all.”

He grabbed Miranda, one hand gripping her upper arm and the other hanging onto the back of her neck. Startled and afraid, she screeched and struggled instinctively, until Snape gave her a good strong shake like a mother dog who’d gotten hold of her wayward puppy. “It’s very curious to me that of my children, this year it is  _ you _ that most seems to require my intervention,” he drawled, squeezing her neck slightly. “Why do you think that is, Miss Whitsall?” 

“I don’t-I don’t know, sir,” she sobbed, visibly trying to keep herself from struggling any further.

Snape released her and the moment he did, Miranda’s weak knees had her sliding back down the wall again, staring up at him as she was completely at his mercy. 

“I am proposing a bargain for you,” he said quietly. “I will keep you away from your so-called brother, and his obnoxious little group of disgusting delinquents. In exchange, you shall be protected from any further attempts like the one you just suffered. But I demand your obedience. You will do as I say, when I say it.”

Meekly, she blinked the tears from her lashes and nodded frantically.

“You won’t be giving me any of that spiteful compliance that you’re so fond of, either - oh, no need for surprise, Miranda. I’ve had you in my classes since you were eleven. I’m well aware that you have an ability to twist the meaning of commands that you dislike,” Snape said, brows arched. “You have apparently fooled your other professors as well as your odious family into believing that this stems from Hufflepuff stupidity when you and I know perfectly well that it’s driven by a malicious desire to punish the person giving you commands.”

Ashen-faced, Miranda croaked out “I- sir, I’m-”

“ _ Sorry _ , are you?” he purred. Harry had the strange feeling that something about her intentional disobedience actually pleased the man, as much as that contradicted anything he knew of him. Snape grasped the back of her neck again, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You will obey me without twisting my words to suit you, and I will expect you to execute any and all of my wishes with breathtaking swiftness. You are not to speak against me or argue with me - not in public. In private, you may rail against me all you wish and I shall ignore you. What I say to you when we are alone shall not be repeated even to the closest of your bosom friends, and if you question any of my actions, will you again be ignored. Do we understand each other, Miranda?”

“Anything you want, whenever you want,” Miranda mumbled, swallowing heavily as she was forced to stare into his eyes. Harry wondered, not for the first time, if Snape was using Legilimency on her. Her eyes were gray - not blue-gray like Sirius or silver-gray like Malfoy’s, but a darker gray, like flint. “Keep my mouth shut. I understand, sir.”

“I very much doubt that you do, but I suppose that you shall learn,” he murmured, releasing her once more. He eyed her appearance. Her robes were disheveled, her blouse torn in some places, and her tie loose. Her face was a mess of blood and bruising. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy and additionally, Miranda had never been fully able to stop crying during their entire exchange.

She made a gesture to wipe her eyes, looking visibly uncomfortable with Snape continuing to see her in such a state, but the Headmaster grabbed her wrist, lowering it back down to her side. “Do not clean yourself up,” he told her quietly. “I will be walking you back to the Hufflepuff dorms, and you must be in the most pitiable state possible when you arrive.”

There was the space of a second where it was obvious that Miranda wanted to argue with Snape, but she also clearly remembered the vow she’d just made. So instead she nodded, her gaze on the flagstone floor. 

Snape paused a moment before unhooking his heavy black outer robes and sweeping the fabric over Miranda instead. “You may lead the way,” he said, refastening the silver clasps across her collarbone. “And if you are capable of forcing yourself to cry, please do so. As loudly and as messily as you are able.”

“ _ Make _ myself cry?” she sniffled, confused.

“The ordeal that Mister Collier believes you have suffered at my hand tonight must be made as public as possible,” he explained to her somberly. “I cannot stop him from attacking you in some other location of his choosing - what I can do is make him too reluctant to attempt it in the first place.”

Miranda gritted her teeth. “So I’m your property now, instead of his?”

“When other eyes can see you, yes. You will belong to me.” Some brief emotion, perhaps sympathy, shadowed his face for less than a second. “Alone or with me, you belong to yourself.”

Trembling, Miranda nodded and turned away, shaky and limping with fatigue from muscles sore from fighting and then from the rush and absence of adrenaline, hugging herself in a desperate attempt to preserve what modesty was left to her. Snape lurked just a few feet behind, a tall black shadow that stalked her like a bad omen.

It was when they finally got to the Grand Staircase that the first sob - a loud raw wail that hurt just to hear - left her mouth. The portraits stared and whispered to each other, scandalized by the image of this poor abused Hufflepuff wandering the halls in such a state after curfew with the Headmaster himself behind her, looking perfectly composed.

Miranda cried and sobbed, hunched over herself protectively, the Headmaster’s own outer robes draped over her like a shroud, the entire way back to the Hufflepuff dorms.

The poor perfect who was required to answer the door was none other than Hannah Abbott - who went so pale at the sight of the Headmaster standing there that her freckles become stark ugly splotches across her face, frozen in terror inside the doorway down to The Den. 

“Miss Abbott, take better care in future to ensure that none of the students in your dormitory are found violating curfew,” Snape said coolly. “Or I shall have to deduct points.”

The sight of poor Miranda’s face appeared to unglue Hannah’s tongue. “O-oh! Wits, is that you? What happened to you?! Who did this to you!?”

“Cease your caterwauling at once, Miss Abbott,” he drawled, looking utterly bored. “The damage is merely cosmetic.”

“Cos-” Hannah drew herself up in anger, nearly speechless with outrage. “Headmaster-”

“You may stop there, Miss Abbott,” he cut her off, black eyes glittering dangerously. “Miss Whitsall is hardly in mortal peril. Consequently, if I find you have wasted Madam Pomfrey’s time in healing her - very temporary,  _ cosmetic _ \- injuries, I shall deduct 100 points from Hufflepuff and give every prefect in it a month’s worth of detentions. Do I make myself clear to you, Miss Abbott?”

Jaw clench, even Hannah’s blonde curls trembled in rage. “Yes, sir,” she gritted out, then beckoned Miranda in. “Let’s get you cleaned up, Wits. Come on.”

“Miss Whitsall,” Snape called, and the two girls were forced to stop. His gaze swept up Miranda’s body with a leisurely, possessive air. “We shall continue tonight’s discussion at a later date.”

It seemed to dawn on Hannah that some of Miranda’s current clothing was not from her own wardrobe, because she was suddenly looking from her to the Headmaster with an increasingly sickened expression. 

Miranda’s reply was a submissive, thready whisper: “Yes, sir.”

When the Pensieve-space darkened, Harry couldn’t help but notice that Hermione was nearly vibrating with some clever observation that she had obviously gleaned from this viewing. But he didn’t have time to ask before another scene began unfolding before them. 


	3. yesterday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've created a monster :(

Miranda was sitting at a desk in the very office they had come from, writing with industrial focus and occasionally glancing at the pages of the enormous volume laid out in front of her. The desk wasn’t anything like the two-person benches that were in the Transfiguration or Potions classrooms, or the long tiered tables in Charms. This was more like one of the armchair desks that sat in the lecture halls of his primary school back in Surrey, with an armrest on the right side and a curved edge closest to the body that would accommodate the sitter.

Harry was rather jealous to note that she was using a real ballpoint pen instead of suffering through the tediousness of the usual quill and ink their professors - all except the former Muggle Studies, Charity Burbage - required of them. 

There were no marks on her face anymore, so enough time had passed since the last memory for her black eye and bloodied-up nose to have healed. 

At the Headmaster’s desk, Snape was reviewing a piece of parchment which relayed information to him that had his brows lifting higher and higher. Finally, he put the scroll down and said “Miss Whitsall.”

“Yes, sir?” Miranda said, without looking up from her scribbling, though her expression was suddenly more attentive.

“You have entered the year of your OWLS, Miss Whitsall.” Snape said, as he examined Miranda with single-minded focus. “As I’m sure you’re already aware, this means that a conference is required with your Head of House regarding your future career plans.”

The pen in her hand clattered to the floor, startling her and causing Miranda to scramble for a moment beneath the desk to retrieve it. “Yeah-yes, sir. But, sir...you aren’t my Head of House…”

The honorific seemed to leave her mouth quite easily now, without that protracted pause that used to live there and still lived there when she spoke to McGonagall today. 

“I am not,” Snape agreed calmly, “However, Pomona thought that you might find my advice more valuable.”

Her gaze slid away from his, staring out in the window. It must’ve been winter - it looked quite frosty outside. “You mean that Sprout is terrified of being left alone in a room with me because she thinks I’m your spy.”

“She is not wrong,” he stated, just as serene as before. “Because you would undoubtedly divulge anything and everything she said to you - just not in the manner that she believes, since you would simply give me whatever information I desire rather than being threatened or tortured.”

Miranda continued to examine the flurries falling onto the grounds with inordinate fascination. Her shoulders were rounded, defeated, and her spine was bowed as though under a great weight. Hollowly, she said “I thought we were supposed to be the House of dedication and loyalty.”

Snape examined her intently. Harry did not think he seemed as...calculated, as dispassionate as he usually was. “Sprout _is_ acting out of loyalty, Miranda,” he said finally. “Because she has nearly a hundred students that she must think of.”

“And I’m not one of them, anymore,” she concluded dully. “My own roommates don’t even want to talk to me.” She gave a humorless laugh. “They seem to think rape is a contagious disease, and if they get too close to me, they might catch it. And that’s the ones who think that I’m a victim, and not a Death Eater in training.”

“Not far from the truth,” he said softly. No doubt about it - Snape definitely felt some kind of sympathy for this girl. Though it was admittedly hard not to, in her situation. “If I have noticed you, the ever-sharp _Wits_ , cleverest in her class but virtually unknown to the rest of the school until now, and plucked you from the innocence of your fifth-year classmates, there is no reason at all why my gaze should not turn to one of them.”

To their surprise, Miranda snorted. “Oh yes... **innocence** ,” she said, mockery dripping from her words. “Wits, she’s the gentle flower, that dear little Hufflepuff, meek as a mouse.” 

Snape paused halfway through the motion of taking his own notes from whatever he was reading. “Miranda…”

“Are you trying to ask if I’m a virgin?” she asked, with a smirk and the roll of her eyes. “I’m _fifteen_ , Headmaster. Of course I am.”

“Merely...hoping that you have not been ill-used,” he said slowly. “Not an unreasonable concern, considering that I have already met one of the men that you live with.”

“You mean Vaughn?” She rolled her eyes again, but she could not quite hide her uneasiness behind the air of coolness she tried to project. Quietly, she said “Just because I’m a virgin, doesn’t make me innocent, sir - Mum and Vincent didn’t actually allow him to touch me, but that didn’t stop his mouth from running.”

The stare he gave her was piercing. “Sometimes that’s worse, Miranda. And we are getting away from the initial topic. Your classmates ignore you, either because they believe that associating with you will bring my attention to them, or because they are so frightened of what they believe is happening to you that they can only deal with this fear by pretending that they cannot see you, that you do not exist. That old misguided belief that is ‘out of sight, out of mind’.”

“Gee, I suppose I have to be glad that it isn’t really happening to me, then,” she said bitterly. “Since not a single person - not even my own Head of House, not even my own _mother_ \- has attempted to comfort me, let alone try to get me away from you. I was never that close to Sprout, but Babbling and Sinistra used to like me, before. And McGonagall doesn’t even want to look at me.” 

“Regarding Cynthia Dare Whitsall, I believe her gambling problem caused her almost as much grief as losing your father when you were small, Miranda. Marrying Vincent Collier has saved her from financial ruin, and it appears that she is either willing to offer you in trade for the comfort of this new lifestyle she has acquired or she is so totally under Vincent’s thumb that she does not see why she should be rising to the defense of her own child,” Snape told her, folding his arms across his chest. He did not look pleased to be relaying this opinion.

“As for Minerva, she is the former Deputy Headmistress and such, the de facto leader of the staff who have...questionable loyalty to our Lord. She has likely prevented any of them from interceding on your behalf. What you see now is Minerva feeling the sting of her own guilty conscience. Gryffindors always do - those that are _capable_ of the emotion, anyway.” 

“Why would Professor McGonagall have told them not to help me, if it makes her feel guilty?” Miranda asked, dark brows coming together. Hearing Snape say that her mother was totally beholden to her stepfather didn’t seem to surprise or distress her at all.

“For the same reason that your classmates are reluctant to acknowledge you now - because I _chose_ you,” Snape said quietly. “And the damage has already been done. Minerva fears that if she attempts to remove you from me, I will simply transfer my attention to another girl, Miranda - a girl who would not bear the weight of the trauma they believe that I inflict upon you as well as you appear to be.”

“So I’m disposable,” Miranda concluded coolly. “Good to know.”

“Being ignorant of the real situation, from the outside, all they can see is that you display no visible distress. What you are is _resilient_ , Miranda,” he explained. “Were you found wandering the halls wailing and crying every night, like that first night, I have no doubt they would attempt to secret you away. Since Mister Collier has already told people that he was originally supposed to wed you, some of your teachers might even assume that you find your current situation preferable to that one.”

Horrified, she said “They’ve actually talked themselves into believing that I _want_ you to rape me?!”

“I said ‘preferable’, not ‘desirable’,” he pointed out with a disapproving frown - at her language or her tone, it was hard to say. “Even if you were not an underage child, they would not be able to delude themselves into thinking that you welcome your circumstances. You have become too solemn and withdrawn since then. I simply meant that many of your teachers are quite aware of what sort of person Vaughn Collier is.”

Miranda gave that a moment of thought before suddenly bursting into laughter, however inappropriate. “Perhaps I ought to decorate myself with cuts and bruises somewhere, until you’ve earned back your reputation, sir,” she spluttered, still giggling despite herself. “If they really believe that _you_ show me more mercy than Vaughn would.” 

“You won’t do anything of the kind,” Snape said, suddenly very sharp. It made the three Gryffindors a bit more at ease, actually. It was closer to the tone they were used to hearing from him, rather than this carefully neutral gentility that he spoke to Miranda with - which, Harry noticed, sometimes veered toward something almost affectionate. “Didn’t I just tell you that if you look visibly distraught or injured, they will consider spiriting you away from me for your own safety?” 

“Right, sir,” she said quietly, but her expression still held a faint smile. “Wouldn’t you just pick another girl, sir? Is saving damsels in distress your weekend hobby then?” 

His look was suddenly very intent. Very _intense_. “No, Miranda, I would not pick another young lady. Perhaps if-no,” Snape said, with very uncharacteristic hesitation. “There is only one other that I might lend such assistance to. But she is a better duelist than you are and has much more experience in evading her prospective captors. I also suspect that she would rather die than take help of any kind from me, never mind such help as I provide for you.”

Slowly, the smile faded from her eyes. She studied him nearly as intently as he had studied her, an eerie mirror of Snape’s expression on her face. “Why _do_ you help me, sir?”

As quickly as that, the hardened countenance they were used to seeing on his face snapped back into place. Snape replied in a monotone. “I believe that we have already covered my policy regarding any questions that you may have, Miss Whitsall.” 

“Don’t ask them,” she whispered, lowering her eyes back down to the desk. “Yes, sir.”

“That leaves us with the question at hand, Miss Whitsall - what do you want to be when you grow up?” he asked, with enough sarcasm to bring the smile back to her face, though she also looked a bit worried. 

“I suppose I always thought I’d end up staying at home,” she said slowly. “That’s what Mum would expect.”

Miranda fingered the handle of her wand, which after the past few months Harry and Hermione had, they immediately took notice of. 

It was a paler wood of a handsome soft butter yellow along the shaft where most of the wood was seen, and stained a gentle faded gray along the simple rounded handle where she held it.

“Unicorn hair,” Hermione said aloud, leading Harry and Ginny to look at her askance. Hushed, she added “You can tell because of the decoration - dragon wands are usually more detailed, even when they have more of a rustic design, and phoenix wands tend to be more naturalistic than that. Unicorn wands favor minimalism and simplicity.” 

“We’re missing everything!” Ginny complained.

They both shot her apologetic looks before quieting back down in time to hear Snape saying “-interested in what Cynthia Collier thinks, luckily,” he said, with a curl of his lip. _Very curious_ . It was very like the expression he wore whenever James Potter was mentioned. Clearly not much love lost there. Harry knew that you could have kids without being in love, he wasn’t a total innocent, but he still wondered why Snape had slept with her if he despised her _that_ much. “I asked you what _you_ wanted, Miranda. What do you plan to do with your future?” 

“I guess I haven’t really thought about it,” she muttered, picking absently at her cuticles. Without smugness or joy, she said “I’m good at most magic, I suppose, but I’m not particularly great at anything.”

With a hard stare, Snape held up the sheet of parchment he had been studying before and recited without looking: “Ancient Runes: O, Astronomy: E, Arithmancy: O, Charms: O, Defense: E, Herbology: O, History of Magic: P, Potions: E, Transfiguration: E. Your History grade has remained consistently dismal even for the relative disappointment that subject is for most students, but even so, you’ve been in the top 3 students in your class every single year. You’re on track to graduate as the class Salutatorian. Valedictorian, if you want it enough to correct those History scores.” 

Dropping the scroll back onto his desk, Snape curled his lip at her. “That was an absolutely abysmal attempt at lying to my face, and I don’t appreciate the effort, Miranda. These are not the marks of a girl idling her days away until graduation with no thought to her future ambitions.” 

Miranda stared at him, mouth opened like a fish in a butcher’s display. She seemed quite incapable of speech right then. She looked like she’d just been caught doing something she oughtn't.

He leaned forward across the desk, eyeing her like a particularly complex and difficult brew. Apropos of nothing, he said “Do you know who the class Valedictorian for this year’s batch of graduates is?” 

She shook her head mutely. 

“The most likely Valedictorian for the class of 1998 will, officially, be Draco Malfoy, even despite his rather subpar performance during his sixth year,” he informed her, eyes still piercing her for a reaction. “Unofficially, he is only the Salutatorian because the real Valedictorian is almost certainly Hermione Granger.”

“Sir…” Miranda said slowly. “Granger is…”

“Not currently in attendance,” Snape said coolly. “I am aware, yes. Like yourself, I have had Miss Granger in my classes from the moment she entered this school. Though it is currently an unpopular statement, I am comfortable with saying that she may be the most gifted child these halls have ever seen. ”

Beside Harry, Hermione gasped quietly, and he gave her a gentle nudge at this acknowledgement of her brilliance. 

“But this is not why she would have been the Valedictorian, Miranda. Just as Mister Malfoy would not have made Salutatorian because he is clever, although he is. _Cleverness_ is not enough. Granger has the highest number of OWLs achieved on record - if all she wanted to do was graduate, she could’ve spent her last two years drawing in class and reading fashion magazines during her exams.”

Both Harry and Ginny had to suppress their laughter at the absolutely appalled expression on Hermione’s face as this sentence was uttered. 

“Granger earned her position because of desire, because she was ambitious. Don’t look horrified,” he scolded, almost as though he could see the three Gryffindors in the room with them. “Slytherins do not have a premium on setting goals, just as Ravenclaws don’t have sole ownership of intelligence. She earned her place through relentless work and a refusal to accept anything but first place. Mister Malfoy will have earned his place because he knew that anything less than perfection was unacceptable in his father’s eyes, and the cost of failure carried a very steep price at home. So, Miranda. _Which is it_ \- are you frightened or are you passionate?”

She had resumed restlessly picking at her cuticles. “Can’t I be both?” She leaned back in her chair. “I don’t want to be stuck in Collier’s house any longer than I have to be - and...and I want to be a Healer, someday. Sir.”

Snape’s brows lifted, and he looked quite pleased just then. “Well, Miranda. I believe I can assist you - on _both_ counts.” 

This time, Hermione was determined not to miss her chance, the revelation eagerly bursting from her mouth as soon as the images began to fade from view. “Professor Snape is Miranda’s real father!” 

Harry was absolutely speechless. Ginny was **not**.

“Hermione…” she said, then trailed off. “You’re tired, I know you are. And he _was_ weirdly nice to Wits, but that _is not evidence_ that Snape is anyone’s father, never mind poor Miranda Whitsall.” 

“Snape is in love with my mum, Hermione,” Harry said, trying to be delicate and mostly sounding quite awkward. “He has been since they were in primary school.”

“Harry, Lily Evans has been gone for longer than Snape knew her - and you don’t have to love someone to have children with them,” Hermione reminded him gently. With one hand, she delicately traced the outline of her own upturned nose, highlighting the feature in question. “Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed that.”

That gave them pause. Well, _yes_ , they had.

Of course Miranda’s nose wasn’t quite as large, because she was obviously a fifteen year old girl, and personally Harry thought that the nose suited her much better than it suited Snape - her wide rounded cheeks and larger mouth and eyes provided a better balance for such a prominent feature than Snape’s near-gauntness. There was no getting around the fact that hers was a smaller replica, though.

His brilliant friend hadn’t finished yet. “Her hair is very curly, obviously nothing like his, and it’s not quite as dark either. Neither are her eyes - but Harry, he knew absolutely _everything_ about Miranda’s mother! Her gambling habit that started when Miranda’s ‘father’ supposedly died and the way she’s completely under the control of Vaughn Collier, he knew everything - even Cynthia’s maiden name!”

Slowly, Ginny agreed “That talk he gave her about career advice was pretty much the way Dad might talk to me - I can’t imagine Snape asking questions about a girl’s virginity, either, if she were only another one of the students. And he calls her _Miranda_.”

“But that’s her name,” Harry pointed out.

“Snape doesn’t do familiarity, Harry,” Hermione immediately jumped in. “He likes the distance of proper titles. He doesn’t even call Malfoy by his first name, and Malfoy was his favorite. But every time they were alone together, he called her Miranda.”

“Until he thought she was being flippant and overstepping herself,” Ginny murmured, brows bouncing upwards. This whole thing was an excellent distract from the past twelve months, particularly the last 72 hours. “Then he went back to calling her **Miss Whitsall**.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” Hermione nodded. “I honestly can’t think of any other reason why such a stickler for formality like Snape would suddenly use a student’s first name like that, Harry. Unless he’s really having an inappropriate relationship with her, she has to be his real daughter. And-and-!” Hermione was so excited she could barely breathe, but she finally managed to get out: “Snape has at least one more child other than Miranda - he has another daughter, but I think Miranda is probably the _younger_ sibling.”

“How in Merlin’s name did you figure that out from _two_ conversations?!” Ginny demanded.

“Well, when Snape first sent Collier and his friends away, he asked Miranda a question. He said something like: ‘of my children, you most seem to require my intervention’. At first, I thought Snape had meant ‘ _my children_ ’, as in _all the children in the school_ , but the more I thought about it, the more I’m sure that he was talking about his own _biological_ children.” Her hand waved dismissively. “It’s very paternal language anyway - I could see Dumbledore using a phrase like that with regards to the students, but Snape doesn’t talk that way, he never has. _THEN_ , when Miranda asks him about picking another girl…”

“He _stumbled_ ,” Ginny whispered, eyes darting over to Hermione’s. “I noticed that, too. He stumbled on his answer as soon as Wits asked him about protecting that other girl. He wasn’t expecting it, and even having to think about her got him ruffled.” 

“Maybe he was actually thinking about the mother, Miranda’s mother Cynthia,” Harry suggested, intrigued by this idea now.

“No, didn’t you hear Snape?” Hermione asked, shaking her head. “He thought that this girl would rather die than accept his help - Cynthia sounds a bit too self-serving for that. It also implies that she has more agency in her fate than Miranda, which is why I think she must be his _older_ daughter. She must be someone who was on our side of the war while everyone else believed that Snape was a Death Eater.”

“ _And_ she’s a good duelist, or at least _Snape_ thinks that she is,” Harry murmured thoughtfully. “And coming from him, that’s no joke, Hermione. I don’t think even Tom and Dumbledore were as good as he really is - they both had raw power and a flair for theatrics, but Snape was all raw skill.”

Ginny had become quite keen on this as well. “He also said that she was experienced at avoiding capture,” she said, thinking out loud. “So, she might be an Auror?”

“It would fit with all of his statements,” Hermione said earnestly, at Harry’s startled expression. “Older than Miranda, on our side of the war, and a skilled duelist who has a proven track record at evading his fellow Death Eaters. But Snape is still quite young for a parent with an adult child - she’d only be about twenty at most.” 

“Well, the only female Auror I’ve ever met is Tonks and she’s... _was_ ...too old to be Snape’s daughter, so I don’t suppose we’d know her.” Seeming to agree with her, Ginny mused aloud “She has to be Miranda’s _half_ -sister though. Snape had a relationship with Cynthia - I wonder who the daughter’s mum is…”

“That’s quite a salacious backstory you’ve developed for Professor Snape,” Hermione said, amused. “I doubt he’d be flattered that you seem to think he’s some kind of womanizing absentee-father.” 

“But it’s true!” Ginny protested. “It _has_ to be. Wits is an only child - she doesn’t have any sisters, Hermione, older or younger.”

  
The next scene was forming around them, familiar and dreaded at the same time - the Great Hall. 

“He gave her his own robes, you know,” she murmured, eyes distant. 

Harry blinked. “Erm...yes. Why do you think _that’s_ evidence, though?”

Smiling with faint affection, Hermione said “Because he’s a _wizard_ , Harry. If Snape had wanted her more well covered, he’s more than capable of conjuring something for her. That would have been chivalrous enough - but he didn’t. He took off his own garment and gave it to her. That isn’t courtesy, Harry, that’s something much deeper and more personal, especially considering that Snape is a very closed-off and private individual. He wears his robes like they’re armour, but he took them off and gave them _to her_.”

Mouth twisting sadly, she said “Miranda is his daughter, and he loves her - he loves _both_ of them, I think - even if his eldest daughter probably hates him. And Miranda doesn’t seem to be aware of any of this, but she obviously _does_ realize that he was trying to save her.”

Ginny was the only one of them who’d been paying attention to the actual scenery happening around them, and Harry and Hermione’s conversation came to a close when they heard her whisper: “Oh no.”

In front of them was a view of Miranda and Snape, arm in arm as they walked up the center toward the Head Table, the room decorated for Christmas - this must’ve taken place just before the winter hols, then.

The Headmaster looked no different from any other day, but Miranda wore dress robes, a set of sleek black silk with elbow length sleeves that would have been quite fashionable out in Muggle London but which was almost scandalously tight to the wizarding world, with long slits all around the bottom which flashed hints of another silk fabric of yellow with an almost honeycomb-like pattern to it with each of Miranda’s strides. Her dark curls had been piled on top of her head and a crown of opaque amber stones set atop it, glowing golden whenever the light hit the gems just right. 

The color scheme seemed quite pointed after the last conversation they had witnessed - perhaps it was Miranda’s way of silently condemning her own House for their abandonment and disloyalty? A reminder of their failed pledge as Housemates to be ‘like family’?

After the conversation he’d just had with Ginny and Hermione, Harry only recalled how inappropriate this scenario was as he took in the faces of the children witnessing this along with them. His eyes were naturally drawn to Ginny, who looked like she was strongly tempted to rip Snape’s head off. Hannah Abbott, who was sitting on the other side of the Hall, looked like she might be tempted to help.

The girls in the upper years especially seemed absolutely terrified, most of the first through third years being too young to understand the true implication of Miranda’s situation. It made Snape’s observation that they worried any of them would be next that much more awful - because with one look around this room, Harry knew those words were obviously true. 

They did not see the reality - a father walking with his daughter - but instead, they saw what Snape had perfectly orchestrated them to see: the Headmaster carrying on a coercive and likely violently abusive relationship with an underage student right in front of their faces and then parading her around like his possession, a beautifully decorated accessory that he flaunted shamelessly. 

Harry and Hermione had never seen McGonagall so utterly disgusted, so apoplectically furious as she was just then. Her face was so red, her teeth clenched so tightly that if they had not seen her relatively hale and healthy less than an hour ago, they would genuinely believe she was about to have a stroke of some kind. When the pair of them finally arrived at the Head Table and Snape seated Miranda on his right side - literally pushing her shoulders down to forcefully direct her into her chair - they thought steam might actually come out of McGonagall’s ears.

Sprout, forced to watch Miranda being manhandled into place, let out a low miserable sob, her left hand - her wand hand - clenching beside her empty plate, but she did not shed any tears and kept her silence as the Headmaster announced the start of the meal. She looked painfully aware that the price of attempting to save Miranda from her current position would be very, **very** high indeed. 

Their small party moved closer, so that they might be able to hear any conversation happening at the Head Table, especially between the Headmaster and his ‘hostage’. 

“Remember what we have discussed,” Snape murmured in her ear, too low for the other members of staff to hear. “Feel free to appear as frightened as you wish, as long as you do not overextend your abilities - an actress need not be dramatic to be convincing, and I have a preference for quality over quantity.”

Miranda nodded, keeping her chin pointed down toward her lap, and didn’t bother to conceal the trepidation that was most likely very real. Her hands visibly shook as she picked her knife and fork up. Flitwick, closest to Snape on his opposite side, frowned at her in concern. “Miss Whitsall, are you unwell?”

Mouth clamped shut, Miranda shook her head quickly in short, jerky motions, darting her eyes toward the foreboding presence of the Headmaster beside her. Flitwick, though he was now eyeing Snape with openly baleful disapproval, ceased his questions at the naked fear on her face presuming - as she had intended - that if he continued to push the issue further, the end result might be Snape punishing her the moment she was left alone with him.

Smirking into his goblet of mulled wine as the dessert course was served, Snape placed a possessive hand on Miranda’s leg - in full view of McGonagall, who sat on her other side. Her teeth were gritted together so tightly, it was nearly audible. He gloated silently and McGonagall clearly wished a painful and _violent_ death upon him.

Miranda angled her head slightly, turning her mouth away from McGonagall’s view. In between chews of her roast beef, she whispered “Why are you baiting her?”

His head tilted as well, in acknowledgment of this observation. Snape’s hand on her leg squeezed slightly. “Because I **_am_ ** using you, Miranda - just not for the purpose Minerva believes,” he replied under his breath. At her questioning glance, he said “ _Distraction_ , Miranda.” 

“What are we distracting her from?” She fidgeted, nervously brushing at tendrils of curls hanging into her face and smiling hollowly at McGonagall. 

He leaned over to whisper in her ear, in a manner that might be leering to other viewers who couldn’t hear his words. “If Minerva is too focused on her frothing fury, she will not be able to consider other matters with her usual degree of close scrutiny. I am using you to keep her eyes where I want her to look.” Even knowing that this whole thing was a ruse, Miranda looked so uncomfortable that they were certain she wasn’t entirely acting. Their eyes met. “Such as the question of why I am not allowing the Carrows more free reign around the school outside of their own classrooms…”

Miranda would _also_ like to know that, if her expression was any indication - but apparently she had learned her lesson since the last memory they’d seen of her and Snape together. Either the strain of her role this year was making her grow more apathetic to the answers as time went by or Miranda was sufficiently loyal to Snape that she simply did as he desired and kept her mouth shut.

Although nothing of particular significance appeared to have happened during this feast before the beginning of the winter holiday, the three Gryffindors expected this third memory to end as the meal did and Snape led Miranda back out of the Hall with a hand clamped to her wrist. 

Harry still couldn’t believe the sheer audacity of the man to flaunt such a gross abuse of his power and position in the open like that - but finding out he was doing it to keep the other members of the staff from starting to question why things at the school weren’t even more heinously violent than they already were made much more sense. 

As Snape ushered Miranda up the staircase into the Headmaster’s office, they could only follow along, only to stop short as Miranda froze at the very top of the stairs. Ahead of her, they heard Snape’s voice. “Ah, Lucius,” he said, completely at ease, dragging Miranda in behind him. “This is an unexpected pleasure. Did you and Narcissa wish to have Draco home early?”

This would likely be the first time she and Snape were required to perform this act in front of anyone from the wider world outside of the school, they realized. And it was someone who believed that Snape was truly loyal to Voldemort. 

Lucius took in the sight of Miranda, dressed up and cowering slightly behind Snape’s black mass. “Yes, Narcissa was quite insistent,” Lucius said slowly. “She longs for the comfort of our son and I was hard pressed to deny her. I see that Draco has not been exaggerating about your...affinity for your new position.”

They were watching Snape and Miranda, and unlike Lucius, the Gryffindors could see what was going on behind their backs. Snape casually placed his hand on the bare skin between her shoulder blades. “It’s rather tedious at times, but it does have it’s highlights,” he drawled with a dark smile. His finger began moving, out of Lucius’ line of sight, tracing letters on the tense muscles. S-W-E-E-T. _Sweet_? “You should greet our guest, Miranda. He is, after all, my oldest friend.”

Harry couldn’t help but think that Snape said the word ‘friend’ with a soft, deadly emphasis that gave him a bit of a chill. Lucius was either too dense to understand that whisper of a threat or he misinterpreted it as Snape’s own brand of fondness. Since he’d already seen Snape’s _real_ displays of fondness for Miranda, it made Harry’s skin crawl. 

Miranda’s response made it crawl more. Eyes demurely lowered, Miranda caught Snape by the left hand - _not_ his dominant wand hand - hugging his arm against her, and leaned into his side, resting her head upon his shoulder. The image was a parody of an affectionate couple. Her voice came out dreamy and breathless. “Good evening, Mister Malfoy. I’m honored to meet our Lord’s gracious host.” 

Again, Harry was reminded unpleasantly of a more disingenuous and jaded version of Luna Lovegood.

Lucius glanced from Miranda to Snape with astonishment. “Have you put her under an Imperius?”

Snape scoffed. “Have you forgotten? I’ve never needed magic to get what I want from women, Lucius.”

“Yes,” Lucius said idly. “I remember your dalliances. I suppose I’d just assumed that you...prefer redheads.” 

“Yes…” Snape sighed, something like boredom settling on his face. “I must admit, I’d prefer some time alone with the Weasleys' dear little coquette, but sadly Minerva already anticipated my tastes as well and refuses to let the girl go anywhere alone.”

Ginny swallowed, looking a bit peaky at this revelation that Snape had apparently allowed the staff to believe that _she_ was the target he truly desired. 

Snape sighed again, this time accompanied by a roll of his eyes. “It’s for the best, I suppose. I have a hard enough time getting it through Amycus’ thick skull that he is not allowed to tamper with the rest of the female students. I don’t wish to be bombarded with Howlers by angry parents.” 

Again, Lucius’ eyes darted rather shrewdly from Miranda to Snape. Miranda had one hand fisted anxiously at the back of Snape’s voluminous black robes, but she continued to smile vapidly. “How exactly do you explain this to _her_ parents?”

“Oh, Miranda’s mother and stepfather have given their full permission and endorsement,” Snape said slyly. “She is my esteemed secretary. They are honored that I chose her, naturally.” 

Lucius looked more and more interested. “Severus, I know you’ve never cared to share, but if you’re bored with the girl, perhaps you might allow me to borrow her for a few weeks, during the holidays?” He was eyeing Miranda with a keen, naked speculation now. “There isn’t much to her, but still - it’s quite appealing, how unkempt she looks.” 

“You are correct, I don’t share,” Snape said dismissively, as Miranda’s hand twisted the back of his robes rather frantically. “But that isn’t why I won’t let you have her. It took me nearly a month to get her to stop crying for her mother every night, I shan’t waste that effort so that you can break her. You won’t even enjoy it, Lucius.” 

Ginny covered her ears, not wishing to hear anymore, and Harry gagged suddenly, unable to handle the two of them talking about an entire person as though he and Snape were having an argument on loaning his broom rather than trying to stop his old ‘friend’ from raping his own daughter. 

“Oh, I always enjoy it,” Lucius countered, with an oily smile.

Miranda still had her heading resting placidly on Snape’s shoulder as Snape’s hand came up and mockingly stroked her hair the way a man might pet his dog. “She’s trained for me and me alone,” he drawled lazily. “And she doesn’t have enough tears or fight in her for you to take much pleasure in her company. In fact, I’ve found that she delights in the pain of being punished as much as our...other activities.”

Unable to handle the stress of the moment any longer, this comment prompted a burst of crazed hysterical laughter out of Miranda’s mouth, coincidentally timed just right to make Snape’s words seem that much more believable as she cackled wildly. “I’m so-sorry, sir,” she whined, trying to muffle her inelegant snorts behind her hand. “I’ll be good!”

“I doubt that,” he said dryly, shoving her off toward the curtained room of the Headmaster’s personal quarters. “Wait for me on the bed, and if you’re wearing any clothing, you won’t get so much as a piece of toast in the morning, Whitsall.”

“Ye-yes, sir!” 

Because Miranda’s memory did not allow them to remain with Snape and Lucius Malfoy in the main office, they were forced to follow her as she made her way behind the curtain into a sparse looking sitting room that housed only a long low sofa made of black leather with coffee table in front of it, all arranged in front of a stone fireplace. 

Miranda paced restlessly for a moment back between the table and the fire crackling warmly in the grate before abruptly bursting into distressed tears and dropping herself onto the end of the sofa. Dismayed, she lifted the back of her hands to press them against her wet, flushed cheeks, chest hitching as she sobbed silently. 

As quietly as she could, Miranda whispered “Prinny.”

A female house-elf silently popped into existence a few feet away from Miranda’s knees. She was quite well-turned out, too - wearing a lacy white cap and a spotless blue and ivory brocade dress tied with a thick silk cord that probably used to be a set of drapes. Looking up at her with concern, Prinny squeaked softly “Mister’s Little Miss has called for Prinny.”

“I wou-would like a cup of tea, please,” she gasped thickly, wiping quickly at her face. 

Prinny pulled a pale blue handkerchief from out of thin air, trimmed in lace like her cap, and pressed it into Miranda’s hands. 

“Little Miss must not cry,” she soothed, and snapped her fingers so that a bone china tea set appeared, patterned demurely with violets, complete with an entire chocolate cake on a matching cake stand. Steam was already gently rising from the spout of the pot.

The sight of that tea service - so feminine and delicate and utterly incongruous in Snape’s quarters - stunned Miranda into silence for a moment, before she patted her face with the handkerchief and asked “How did you know Black Forest is my favorite?”

“It is Mister Sev’s favorite, and the Young Master’s, too,” Prinny replied, pouring the tea for her - two sugars, lots of cream. “Missy has ordered it made for Young Master’s first dinner back at home.” 

‘Sev’ mouthed Miranda silently, still frozen with surprise. Her hands automatically accepted the cup Prinny pressed into them. “W-wait, _Young Master_? Prinny, I thought you were a Hogwarts elf! I can’t just eat someone else’s pudding!” 

With a sly air, Prinny replied “I belongs to Missy, and she would want you and Mister Sev to have it, Little Miss.” 

“You already said it was supposed to be for your Young Master…”

Her face softened further at seeing Miranda’s reluctance. “I hate to tells Missy you wouldn’t has any,” she said softly, with an entreating palm placed on her knee. “It would breaks her heart if I tells her that. But Missy be so very pleased, Little Miss, if she knows it cheers you up.” 

Miranda rubbed her eyes tiredly. Finally, she said, “Okay, Prinny.” 

Apparently the Black Forest Cake was delicious because Miranda nearly inhaled the first slice and finally accepted a second slice, strongly encouraged again through Prinny’s urging, which she ate much more slowly. “I don’t understand,” she said, licking cream and chocolate shavings from her lips. “Why did the Headmaster say that I could summon you if you aren’t a Hogwarts elf? Your mistress can’t be alright with him just loaning out her elves.”

“ _Oh no_ , Little Miss,” Prinny said earnestly, “Missy _gaves_ her permission - she say that Prinny is to answers whenever Little Miss asks for her help, even if Young Master or Missy herself want Prinny, too. She must _always_ answer Little Miss first.” 

“Huh,” Miranda said thoughtfully, balancing her plate in her lap as she sipped at her tea. “She’s awfully gracious, this Missy.”

“Oh yes,” Prinny agreed, becoming somewhat misty-eyed with affection for her mistress. “I’s been with Missy since she a young girl, same age as Little Miss, before she marry the Master. I worries for Missy, after she marry him - especially when she lose her first baby, and her second, too. But then she haves her little lord and ladies, her Dear Lady and Young Master and Darling Girl, and Prinny knows she alright.” 

Miranda, despite her smeared make-up and the exhausted circles beneath her eyes, smiled at the gushing elf. Her eyelids were drooping heavily, the teacup held only loosely in her hand. “That’s lovely, Prinny.”

Prinny gently took the cake plate and saucer from her. “Sev’s Little Miss should lay down while she waits for him to return,” she said, coaxing Miranda into a reclining position. “Prinny will makes sure no one but Mister Sev will find Little Miss in here.” 

She rested her head on the far end of the sofa and blinked - once, twice, three times - into the light of the fireplace. 

Snape came into the room like a shadow, footsteps gliding graceful and silent, eyes searching around the dim room until he found Miranda curled up on the black leather. Coming around the back, he reached down and plucked the yellow-stoned headpiece from amidst the mass of her hair.

If Hermione had not convinced him earlier, Harry would’ve been convinced for certain as Snape gently placed his other hand atop the tangle of curls and pulled a few of the pins free. The Headmaster whispered “Forgive me.”

“Why?” she murmured hoarsely, blinking up at him sleepily. “I mean, what do I need to forgive you for?”

Snape gave the flames in the grate a dark glare. “Many things. But at this particular time, my treatment of you in front of Lucius Malfoy.” 

She sat up slowly, then poured tea into a cup and added neither milk nor sugar before holding it out to him. “What’s one more lie, sir?”

He accepted the cup and sipped it moodily. “If Lucius thinks that I am any way emotionally attached to you, you would be in terrible danger,” he finally explained. “Lucius’ position is a greatly diminished one and our Lord favors me above all others. His sister-in-law despises me and he might become desperate enough to align with her, despite her mental instability. She seeks to prove my disloyalty, and if she believes that the evidence of that is contained within _you_ , she would go to a great deal of effort to acquire you.”

Miranda stared at him, rigid in her seat for a long moment. Her thoughts were nearly written on her face: every moment that the Headmaster had spent with her seemed to be a tiny piece of proof that he was disloyal. “Okay,” she said slowly, nodding. Staring directly at him to convey to her understanding, she repeated “Okay.”


End file.
